All I Ever Wanted
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: This was House's train of thought as his lips met Cuddy's, as his hand entwined with hers, and the only conclusion he could come to was "What a load of crap." My take on the events following House's kiss with Cuddy. Spoilers for "Help Me". Please review!


*sweatdrop* Wow. This story took so much effort, and work, and thinking, and - yeah. I've never really written a blatantly romantic story before, and this is my first Huddy fic - but I'm rather proud of myself. Anyway, yes, yet another "What happened after the scene went black at the end of the season six finale" story. I wanted to do something a little different from a lot of the versions I've seen, which usually involve House and Cuddy recognizing how hard this is going to be and then going off to bed together, with all the implications contained therein. Don't get me wrong, some of them are really well-written, but I just can't see them kissing and then everything is suddenly all hunky-dory. But enough of that.

Enjoy, and please leave your thoughts, especially considering this is only my third House story, and my first Huddy one!

**Author's Note: **The title of the story was inspired by the Jim Brickman piece of the same name.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own House, M.D. - FOX gets the credit for that, I'm afraid.

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**All I Ever Wanted**

It seemed to House that in a more perfect and stereotypical, romance-novel world, the sound of Vicodin clattering softly to the bathroom floor would have echoed with a triumphant, bell-like quality. Wasn't that the way it always happened? The stalwart, battle-scarred hero finally overcomes his flaws to win fair maiden's heart and hand, and the curtain falls over the scene of the cliché, best-smooch-since-the-last-best-one tender kiss.

This was House's train of thought as his lips met Cuddy's, as his hand entwined with hers, and the only conclusion he could come to was "What a load of crap."

An estimated two seconds later, this outlook was grimly, ironically validated; House was forced to drop his head, breaking the kiss, as his bandaged shoulder sent an angry throb of pain shooting through him in preparation for a meet-up with a developing headache. It wouldn't have surprised him if the two decided to join forces and go off in search of another part of his body to harass. And once the impromptu Pain Squad found his thigh, then it was really going to be one hell of a party.

His eyes, already closed, tried to clamp shut even more, though whether this was an involuntary response to the pain or an attempt to keep something more inside him was fairly unclear. In any case, he didn't have the energy to investigate. Trying to concentrate on something else, he gently squeezed Cuddy's hand, as if to reassure her, and was slightly alarmed to find his own hand shaking.

"House?"

He felt her pull back, followed by a touch on his grime-smeared cheek. Inhale, exhale – there were even tremors in his breathing. Had he completely lost control of himself? Heavily, he raised his head again, his hooded eyelids parting. He scanned her face, and found a combination of confusion and concern. No surprises there.

He couldn't think of what to say, so he let her conduct the necessary search for words. When they came, it wasn't what he had expected.

"Foreman told me about Hanna."

House felt a flash of anger at Cuddy's insensitivity. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about – she had to know that. His tormented eyes met hers, desperate to convey even a fraction of the emotional destruction that the dead woman's name invoked in him. But he had nothing to lash out against, no one to blame, and that realization plus the need for empathy in Cuddy's gaze made his anger drain away as quickly as it had come.

Still at a loss for words, and almost afraid to speak even if he'd been able to, House nodded and looked away. His peripheral vision caught the pills still lying on the floor, a foot from where he was standing. He immediately jerked his attention from them. Temptation growled at him and continued to lurk, waiting for another moment of weakness.

He glanced at Cuddy – she was about to speak. He didn't give her the chance.

"Don't tell me it wasn't my fault, that there's nothing I could have done." His voice was harsh, taking some of the fanfare from what had, seconds ago, been a moment of profound truth.

Cuddy's reply was simple and understanding. "I wasn't going to."

During the long pause that followed, House was uncomfortably aware of his own heavy breathing. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away and pressed his fingers lightly to his injured shoulder. Even that slight weight caused it to sting badly. His eyes once again drifted downward to fall on the scattered Vicodin, and this time, unconsciously, they lingered there.

He felt Cuddy move a step closer. "House," she said again, worried and earnest, "I need to change your -"

"That could have been me."

Even he was disturbed by the audible trembling of his words. Still staring at the painkillers below, he continued, finally giving voice to the realization that had haunted him since Hanna's sudden death.

"I told her to let me amputate – because I thought it was the better decision. Because, looking back, I – I wished I'd let them take my leg. Lose a leg, gain a life." He swallowed hard, fighting the pain and exhaustion slowly swelling through his body like a malicious infection. He had to get this out. "I was giving her the hope I'd never acknowledged could exist for me, when all the time, subconsciously, it was keeping me going. And – it didn't matter. She died anyway - and for eleven years I've been deluding myself that things could have been different."

He inhaled sharply as a violent twinge seared through his bad leg. The pause allowed Cuddy her say.

"House," she said soothingly, "nothing was inevitable. Some things just – happen."

But House just shook his head numbly. "I – I told her I would save her life by amputating," he said, with brutal honesty. "I lied to her because I was lying to myself." He leaned past Cuddy, spreading his palms on the cold wall and resting his forehead between them. "Now she's dead in whatever heaven she believed in, and I'm living in a hell I never asked for, crippled because I was ignorant enough to avoid death."

"Now you're saying you want to die?" She turned, putting a hand on his shoulder. "After I just admitted that I'm in love with you? Or is it _because_ of that?"

House noted the unsteadiness of her voice, and he breathed a bitter sigh into the wall. Part of him wished that this moment had picked another time to manifest itself. Part of him, his darker side, wished that Cuddy had stayed away – it would have been so much easier just to give in to his despair, to take the damn pills and return to what was familiar.

"I'm saying," he almost whispered, each word a slow struggle, "that you were right about me – you've always been right about me. I'm not moving on because I'm afraid to, and I haven't changed as much as I thought I had." He straightened reluctantly, twisting around to regard Cuddy. "Doesn't _this_ –" His voice rose, and he indicated the smashed mirror, the hole in the wall, the fallen pill bottles – "prove that to you?"

A pause – House was panting with emotional exertion, but Cuddy remained standing there, calmly. He stared at her in desperate incredulity.

"_Don't you understand?_ I was ready to do it, I – I'm still ready to do it – because I'm still an addict! It just took a familiarly dead patient – and your engagement – for me to realize that."

"Actually," Cuddy remarked, "you did pretty well for a guy who knows he has narcotics stashed away where he can get them any time he wants. Or did you just not want to break the mirror until it was absolutely necessary?"

House didn't reply, but he _did_ glance over and wince slightly at the wreckage lying rather unhealthily in the basin of the shower tub. But his mind soon went elsewhere, seeking a distraction.

"How did Lucas take it?" he asked quietly, abruptly changing the subject.

He raised his eyes. Cuddy had paused, and was now looking as though she had to work to find the correct response.

"He – wasn't happy," she confessed, letting her breath out slowly. "Obviously. Let's just say it wasn't the most pleasant – or coherent – phone conversation I've ever experienced."

"You broke up over the _phone_?"

"House, I didn't have _time_ to go home. I went straight from the accident to the hospital." She raked her fingers through some straggling locks of hair that had escaped her ponytail. "Anyway, he yelled at me for about seven or eight minutes, told me I was being stupid, that I'd regret it, that I'd be back in the morning, apologizing – the usual thing. I finally managed to get a word in edgewise to explain myself – briefly. And – that was it."

House looked at her carefully. "You okay?" he muttered.

She sighed, returning his gaze. "Am I crying?"

"Not outwardly," was his soft response.

"House, it's _done_," she said forcefully. "Shouldn't you be waving your arms in triumph? I _said_ I want to be with you – please don't make me go back and analyze that decision. Because I'm sure I could come up with a dozen reasons why I should just take it all back. Accept that something, for once, has gone right in your life, okay?"

Allowing his eyes to meet hers, House hesitated, but then finally nodded. Suddenly businesslike, Cuddy moved past him and pulled the remains of the mirror frame from the shower tub.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get this cleaned up. You can take a shower, and then I'll re-bandage your shoulder."

House was less than thrilled by the suggestion – he didn't much feel like going to all the trouble of cleaning, whether it was the mirror or himself.

Cuddy went off in search of an extra trash bag, and House took advantage of her absence by sitting down rather heavily on the toilet lid. His hand moved slowly up and down his right thigh. The headache which earlier had been only a threat was now coming on full force, and the strain was showing on his battered features. He glanced at the floor again – or, more precisely, at the Vicodin. His pain wasn't getting any better, either….

Accordingly, he was somewhat relieved when Cuddy returned, toting a dustpan and brush in addition to the trash bag. She seemed to take in House's internal struggle immediately. Wordlessly, she bent down, retrieved the loose pills as well as the bottles, and dropped them all into the bag before turning her attention to the tub.

House watched her efforts for a few moments. The only sound was the scrape of wayward sharp edges being swept up. Then, a bit randomly, he asked, "What about you?"

Crouched down with the brush in one hand, Cuddy twisted her head to look up at him. "What about me – what?"

"Well, you're almost as dirty as I am, and at least four times more concerned with personal hygiene."

She swore softly – House could only assume that a piece of glass had gotten the better of her. "I cleaned up a bit when I got back to the hospital," she answered distractedly, checking for any bits she might have missed. "I assume you skipped that part while you were busy yelling at Foreman."

Neatly tying off the end of the trash bag, she rose. "I'm going to get something to eat, if you don't mind my raiding your fridge."

He nodded. "Fine."

"In the meantime, _you_ –" She pointed. "Shower." She headed for the door, then paused. "And try not to aggravate your shoulder too much while you're at it." The door shut gently behind her, and House was left alone.

He toyed briefly with the idea of just following her out. But, chances were, she'd have him locked in the bathroom again within three minutes – or less – and suddenly, the idea of a warm, soothing shower battling the dull stomping throb of his body's current state was not so unappealing.

Wearily, he got up, turned on the water, and began removing his clothing. It was amazing, he thought, how much grime had managed to make contact with his skin. In short order, his clothes were in a careless heap on the floor, and their owner had stepped under the steaming spray of water from the shower head.

He hadn't bothered to remove the bandage from his shoulder; but when it became sodden within moments, it was easy to peel off. The nasty cut beneath was still oozing blood and stung viciously as the hot water hit it. House gritted his teeth, lathered a washcloth, and proceeded to gingerly clean the wound before soaping down the rest of his body. It wasn't long before the suds washed away, but the sensation of the warm liquid running down was simply too comfortable for House to feel any immediate inclination to move.

Finally, however, he decided that he'd wallowed enough – the heat wasn't going to ease any more of the pain than it already had. He switched the water off and pulled open the curtain. Cuddy was standing there, her arm extended as she placidly offered him a towel.

Unexpectedly, House felt his face growing warm. It wasn't the general idea of wearing nothing in Cuddy's presence that bothered him – and it would have been even better if their positions had been reversed – it was that fact that she could plainly see the sunken area of his thigh where the muscle had been removed. Obviously the sight wasn't new to her, but when she caught him off guard like this….

Feeling something closer to humiliation than embarrassment, House dropped one hand to cover the old injury while grabbing the proffered towel with the other. Cuddy moved back, her expression unreadable, and he carefully stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist as he did so. Wiping the excess water from his face, he took a calming breath and waited.

"You need to dry off before I can do up your shoulder again," Cuddy informed him matter-of-factly.

A moment passed in silence as House considered this. He knew that asking her to leave the room was out of the question. "Turn around, then," he ordered, a bit more brusquely than intended.

He expected her to make some pointed, even scathing remark about this sudden rush of modesty – but she obediently turned her back on him without comment. As he hastily dried off, he considered it himself. It was, he had to admit, rather out of character – but maybe he was already feeling too vulnerable and just needed to regain some measure of protection and control.

He replaced the towel around his waist. "Okay," was all he said.

"Right." Cuddy faced him again. "Where's a bandage I can use?"

"In the cabinet."

He sat down on the toilet again as she obtained the needed supplies and came over to examine his shoulder.

"You're still dripping," she observed, peering down.

"I don't care." House closed his eyes as he felt her fingers brushing his skin. Unanticipated tingles rippled through him, only to be wiped out by a flash of pain. "What the hell?" he demanded, snapping his eyes up to glare at her. Unfazed, she continued to swab at his shoulder with a pad of gauze.

"Antiseptic."

"I cleaned it!"

"You scrubbed half the skin off. Hold still." She finished securing the fresh bandage and stepped away. "Best I can do. Don't take it off – and don't play with it," she added, as House's fingers instinctively reached up to investigate her handiwork.

"Am I allowed to get dressed now?" he asked rhetorically.

"Go ahead." She pointed to a neatly folded pile of clothing against the wall, passing a weary hand over her face. "God, I'm tired."

House had, by this time, given up completely on taking charge of the situation. Cuddy seemed to be enjoying bossing him around, and frankly, it was easier to go along with it than to do his own thing. Especially when his brain was only working at half capacity, maximum.

Cuddy had left to go make tea, and House was just pulling on the fresh T-shirt she had provided when he heard a distant knock, followed by the sound of the apartment door opening and a voice calling his name. Exiting the bathroom, he limped through the narrow hallway and into the living room. He was completely unsurprised to find that Wilson had just walked in.

They stared at each other for a moment – House wasn't about to start a conversation – and then Wilson said, sounding almost shocked, "You look – awful."

No kidding. Aggravated, House let his eyes roam around the room for a few seconds before looking back at his friend. "Are we having a state the obvious contest?" he inquired acidly.

"No, seriously." Wilson held up a hand. "Are you okay?"

House would have very much liked to start fingering his cane at this point, but seeing as the object in question had probably been cleaned up along with the rest of the debris at the crane site, he had to settle for another visual tour of the room.

"I spent eight hours dragging myself through rubble," he said finally, with a deliberate lack of emotion, "I found out that Cuddy and Lucas were engaged, I amputated a woman's leg and killed her as a result, and I was about six seconds away from going back on Vicodin. But sure –" he shrugged – "I'm fine."

He had to wait as Wilson mentally sorted through the list, but the other eventually managed to speak.

"You call that fine? House – we need to talk." He paused, frowning. "And why are you wet?"

House had just about exhausted his store of sarcasm; he didn't bother with a witty retort. "I took a shower," he replied shortly. He bent slightly to massage his leg – the pain was picking up again. Damn.

"Oh." Wilson seemed slightly thrown off by the simple answer. "Well. That's good, I guess."

"Glad to hear it. Now remind me why you're still here?"

"Because you can't possibly expect me to believe that you're fine. I mean, you flipped out at Foreman just for trying to get rid of your guilt –"

"State the obvious contest…."

Wilson sighed. "Stop that. Look, I know what happens when you really get upset. When you're just annoyed, you take it out on other people. When you're angry, even. But when you're actually, genuinely upset, you turn all those destructive tendencies on yourself." He looked at House firmly. "Now until you give me infallible proof that you're capable of taking care of yourself, I'm not leaving."

House exhaled slowly before replying. "I'm not sure I _am_ capable," he admitted quietly. "But," he added, "fortunately, someone else _is._" He broke off, glancing around, but Cuddy was nowhere to be seen. "Where _is_ she?" he muttered.

"She?" Wilson repeated, as House turned and headed to the kitchen. "Oh, God – honestly, House, if you've hired another hooker to take care of you –"

"No hooker," House assured him. The kitchen was empty. He began limping back down the hallway, now wincing at every step.

"Now what are you up to?" asked Wilson resignedly, following. "If 'she' isn't a hooker, then –"

Ignoring him, House returned to the bathroom. He retrieved some ibuprofen from the cabinet, shook out two or three pills, and immediately swallowed them.

"So instead of going back on Vicodin, you're going to O.D. on ibuprofen. Great." Wilson was sounding distinctly concerned now. "House - talk to me." He looked past House, tilting his head to one side. "Where's the mirror?"

"I broke it." House closed his eyes, willing the painkillers to take effect.

"Uh huh. How'd you manage that?"

"I ripped it off the wall," House replied, very slowly and deliberately, "and threw it into the tub. The hole," he added, forestalling further questions, "was already there. Are you done interrogating me yet?"

"No, because every time I manage to drag a little piece of information out of you, it becomes that much more obvious that you need to talk to someone and let this out."

House sighed angrily. "I already told you what I've been going through," he said, an edge to his tone. "There's nothing you can do about it, so just – shut up, and – and go away." He pushed past Wilson, turning the corner to his bedroom. Undeterred, the other followed him.

"Okay, I know you're upset about Cuddy's engagement – even I was a little surprised when she told me –"

"I'm not upset," House refuted him over his shoulder.

"Of course you're upset! My God, House – you're in love with her, you can't deny that anymore. So, obviously, you're upset!"

"No," House continued to disagree firmly, "I'm not. I was, but – I'm not anymore." He paused, pushing open the door to his dark bedroom.

"I can't imagine that you've gotten over this so quickly."

"Circumstances change." House went very still then. The door didn't let in much light, but it was enough to see, vaguely, the scrubs-clad form curled up on the far side of the bed. "Seriously?" he asked in a low voice.

"What?" Wilson came up behind him, peering over House's shoulder. The latter could almost hear the other's jaw drop.

"House – what the – is that -?"

"Yes," House confirmed blandly.

"But – what's she doing _here_? In your… bedroom…." Wilson's voice trailed off into a groan.

"Sleeping, one would presume."

"No." Wilson backed up slightly. "Okay, this – this is just too much." He pointed at the door. "House – explain this. Now. Before my brain blows a circuit trying to figure it out myself."

House stared, almost blindly, into the darkened room. "She ended it with Lucas," he replied softly, after a long moment. "She – she loves me."

There was a very pregnant pause. Then Wilson asked, disbelieving, "Seriously? No Vicodin, no crazy hallucinations – she _actually_ told you -?"

House nodded, still not looking at him.

"_Wow_." Wilson let his breath out slowly. "This is – unexpected. But – you're sure you're okay with this?"

House hesitated for several long moments. Nothing was definite, he knew, nothing was perfect – but somehow, this seemed right.

He looked back at Wilson, who was waiting expectantly, and finally, he nodded again. "Yeah." There was really no other answer.

He heard movement form the bedroom, followed by Cuddy's authoritative voice, and he turned toward the door.

"House, get in here," she ordered. "Wilson, shut up and get out."

House glanced back at his friend. Wilson held up his hands, saying only, "You'd better go," but there was a grin spreading across his face.

"Shut up," House told him, spinning around and limping through the doorway.

"Have a good time," Wilson called.

House closed the door firmly in the other's face.

In doing so, he also effectively plunged the entire room into darkness, aside from the faint light easing in through the windows. House felt his way over to the bed and sat down. He couldn't believe that this was actually happening.

After a moment or two of inactivity, he felt a slight tug of the sheets beneath him, followed by a hand searching its way through the blackness. He flinched as it touched him.

"I can't see you," Cuddy complained quietly.

"It's called nighttime."

"Clever." Her hand inched up his arm until it could go no further. "Lie down, will you?"

Trying not to think about how uncomfortably and wonderfully strange this felt, he slowly shifted around, finally settling down on his back.

Cuddy's voice came out of the darkness beside him. "House?"

"Mm?"

"I'm exhausted, but if you really want to make out –"

He smiled slightly as he replied. "No," he murmured. He wasn't sure exactly why he was denying himself the very thing he'd fantasized about for years. Maybe he really was too tired. Or maybe he just wanted to savor the moment and not rush rashly into this, as he had a tendency to do. Maybe, for once, he wanted to ensure that he didn't have any regrets. Or, at least make the attempt to do so.

He sensed her moving closer, and then she was right beside him, her warm body pressed against his own. Her hand gently stroked his chest in a weary sort of way before falling still again.

"Good night, House." She sounded half asleep already.

Turning his head, House kissed her lightly and pulled the blanket up over them both. "Good night, Cuddy," he whispered.

Or so he thought.

It was still dark when he came suddenly, terribly awake. Prior to that moment, he had been asleep, but only just – his slumber had been fitful and restless, troubled by dark thoughts of Hanna's death and his own near regression into his old self, neither of which could be completely dispelled even by the subtle ecstasy of having won Cuddy. But now, something else had seized dominance.

Pain.

He sat up abruptly, horror gripping him. _No_ _– not now – please –_ But the pain, seeming to sense his return to consciousness, immediately went on the offensive, wracking his bad leg as though having a good try at physically tearing the flesh apart. His breathing degraded rapidly, becoming shallow and uneven. His hands, trembling, threw back the blanket and clamped down on his thigh – rubbing, massaging – _anything_ that might give relief. But there was nothing.

House shut his eyes tightly, his body shaking. He couldn't believe how little the ibuprofen was helping – or maybe it had worn off already. Either way, it wasn't making much difference.

Sweat beaded on his skin, and he clenched his teeth against a particularly vicious throb. There was nothing to distract him, nothing that could help – he was alone in the darkness with his torment.

It went on eternally, it seemed, minute by stricken minute with each one worse than the last and with no hint of reprieve. House fought against it desperately, but only because he had no other option open to him. It hadn't been this bad for weeks – which made the agony all the worse now. He clutched harder at his leg, and this time a soft moan escaped him.

"House?" Cuddy, it seemed, had been woken by his fevered movement. The night was just beginning to fade, and House could now faintly make her out as she sat up beside him. "What is it?"

"My – my leg." He broke off with a loud gasp, almost doubling up. Swallowing hard, he went on, "I-I don't know why – it's acting up – _damn it_ –" He swore as another spasm seared through his thigh. His shoulder injury was just a friendly pat compared to this.

Cuddy inched around so that she was still beside him, but now half facing him as well. She reached up, cupping one hand around his ragged cheek.

"If there's anything I can do –" she offered helplessly.

But House shook his head. "No," he whispered, closing his eyes. "There – there's nothing."

He felt her hand fall away and settle on his forearm, stroking it soothingly. But then her touch began moving closer to the source of his pain, and he tensed. He knew that she only wanted to help, to show that she cared and understood, but all the same, inwardly, he had to fight against the urge to tear her hand away. He struggled for a few moments – instinct finally won out.

He caught her wrist as her fingers brushed his thigh, jerking her hand from him. His heart was pulsing rapidly, his breathing quick and harsh.

"Don't," he breathed. It was almost a plea.

After a slight pause, she said, "I'm sorry."

He opened his eyes again, gazing at her in desperation. "Cuddy –" he began, his voice agonized. He didn't want to think what would happen if she said no.

But she only stared at him for an instant and then gave him a faint smile. "It's okay," she assured him. She drew him closer.

Then he was kissing her, and his hands were moving over her as though she were the only thing left in his life. She responded in kind, but for the most part simply let him release his inner turmoil. There was no lust in his actions, no aggression, only a frantic need to feel something other than the pain that was his constant and never-ending affliction.

At long last, the fires in his leg seemed to subside, if only just, and House forced himself to pull away. He noticed that he wasn't the only one breathing heavily now, but Cuddy forestalled any alarm he might have felt by smiling tiredly and giving him another brief kiss.

"Better?" she inquired.

He nodded. "A little. But –" As if on cue, another shot of pain drove through his thigh. He dropped his head, exhaling shakily, and bit off another expletive. Cuddy watched him sympathetically.

Then House took her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. She yielded to the pressure, and then to his motion of pulling her hand toward him. With slow deliberation, he placed it gently on his thigh, struggling to ignore his instinctive tension at feeling someone else touch the mutilated flesh, even through a layer of fabric.

Startled, Cuddy looked up at him, but there was no hesitancy in his eyes. He carefully began moving her hand back and forth with his own. After a minute or so, he lifted his hand away again, leaving her fingers to knead the sensitive injury without his guidance. It was his way of showing complete trust in the woman he had come to love.

It was over an hour later when the pain had eased enough for House to actually consider sleep a viable option. Cuddy stretched her sore fingers against each other, flopping back onto the pillow. House followed more slowly; his leg was still aching badly, and exhaustion had nearly overcome him. Despite Cuddy's presence, he was a fair way from "happy", but relieved to find that the black despair that had assaulted him all night seemed to have dissolved.

He glanced at the clock. Six thirty. They'd hardly even gotten any sleep. No doubt Cuddy would want to be dashing off home to ensure that Lucas hadn't abandoned his post as Rachel's babysitter; and House grimaced at the thought. But when asked, Cuddy only smiled in a peculiarly smug way and murmured, "He knows better."

House couldn't doubt that. He knew Lucas – and he knew Cuddy.

Completely drained of energy, he tried to relax against the hours of strain that had built up in his muscles. Cuddy nestled as close to him as she could without actually putting her head on his shoulder, which might have proved to be problematic. Several minutes passed in silence.

"Don't you have a hospital to be running?" House asked, in a low voice.

There was no reply. He turned his head, and found that she was already asleep, breathing deeply and oblivious to whatever he was saying. She barely stirred when the phone on the bedside table rang loudly. House waited for a few seconds, then abruptly reached over and grabbed it.

"I don't need a babysitter, Wilson," he said shortly.

"Just checking up on you. How's Cuddy?"

"Asleep."

"I hope you didn't push her too hard."

"I didn't push her at all. She was already exhausted, and so was I."

"You mean you didn't -?"

"Nope."

"Why the hell not? Wait – don't tell me your conscience actually _participated_ in your mind's decision-making process."

House sighed irritably. "Shut up."

"Ahhh, I see. So it only emerges in instances of love or death."

"Are you finished?"

"Are you _kidding_? I'm writing this down in my journal."

"House."

It was Cuddy, her voice muffled by sleep. House looked at her, but her eyes remained closed. "What?" he asked.

"Tell Wilson to go away."

He dutifully relayed this information through the phone. "Anything else?"

"Hang up and kiss me."

House directed an invisible shrug at Wilson. "Sorry – gotta go. My conscience says I'm neglecting my responsibilities in bed. Oh, and we're both taking the day off. See ya."

A smile touched his lips as he hung up, folded his arms around Cuddy, and kissed her.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please review! May the Force be with you.


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